I was late. I'm always late. Well, that's not true. I'm sometimes late at work. I'm sometimes late for appointments. But for some reason, I'm always late when I see her.
As usual she only has her phone on her fifty percent of the time, and is otherwise completely unaware of it buzzing and ringing inside her purse. She should have stuck with just keeping items in her pockets. Certainly a good vibration between her pelvis and hip would alert her to exactly how late I am. I am sorry. But at the same time, it really couldn't have been avoided.
I sigh and I finally find a parking spot downtown and turn off my car's engine. The last text I'd sent her was that I'd be there around 12:30... instead of 10 a.m. She'd only responded with an "okay." Now it was nearly 1.
I stepped out of my mid-life crisis sportscar and into the street. A garbage truck rambled by a bit too close. It was like he couldn't see me, and I'm pretty hard to miss. I'm not as wide as I am tall, but since I'm taller than 99 percent of the people I know and am wearing a bright red polo shirt, a few extra inches of clearance would have been nice. I shook off the annoyance and walked down the street looking for house numbers. She always stays somewhere different. She's been up and down the same 2 square miles of the city since I met her 10 years ago.
Originally, when we met she had come to town for work and was bored. I was downtown being stood up by an ex-girlfriend and drinking heavily at the bar. I bought her a drink, and it started a decade long friendship. Now, whenever she manages to get to the area, we get together, sometimes for coffee, sometimes for drinks. Sometimes I have to physically yank myself out of her bed or I'd never leave. Our visits are ever so pleasant: intimate, neurotic, exciting, dramatic and the flirting is good. She makes me feel alive, new. When she touches me she's often hesitant at first, like she's not sure she's supposed to and then as I reciprocate, it's like fireworks.
And I know what you're thinking. How does something like this work? There are no anniversaries to celebrate. There's no real daily check in besides a quick e-mail here or there. In person, we'd probably be on date 12 or so. In reality, we've probably spent a total of five days together over a decade. I keep waiting for her to tire of me, but every time I see her, she's dedicated to maintaining whatever connection we can over years, life changes and turmoil. I'm also pretty sure it keeps us from finding other people to share our lives with.
I always resist spending the night with her, preferring to leave in the dark rather than the light of the morning. I can't tell you why. Well, I can, but I won't. I don't like to think about the why too much. Instead, I'll stop narrating and find her damn apartment.
"Ahhh, the garden floor apartment overlooking the park, of course," I say to myself walking up to the door. The front door is cracked ajar. For a woman who claims to understand the dangers and darkness in the world, she's not so great about locking up behind her. I enter calling her name.
Nothing.
I call again.
Still nothing.
I make my way to the back of the apartment. She's chosen a pretty plain rental unit this time. Money must be tighter than normal. Or she's not feeling like she needs to set the mood. I guess I've become a sure thing.
I knock gently on the bedroom door that's open a crack. "Hello?"
No answer, but a voice, a very out-of-tune voice, trying to sing fills my ears. I follow the scraggly sound to the bathroom. And like Julia Roberts in "Pretty Woman," she's in the tub facing away from me completely "rocking out." Her iPod sits on a table with shampoo, shaving gel, razor, lotion and she's unaware of my arrival.
I open my mouth to say hello again, but think better of it and sit down on the toilet seat behind her to listen. She's belting out some Gen-X, girl-related power song that I don't know the name of. At almost 20 years her senior, I find her youthful energy attractive, but the lack of self-confidence that sometimes comes with it annoying. Online, she's always looking to me for life's answers, short cuts, but sometimes she's legitimately confused and just wants someone to ground her and give her a point of reference. I never know if she finds my advice helpful or patronizing, but she keeps asking, so I do my best.
She's sitting up in the bath with her head leaning back on a folded up towel for comfort. Her hips are turned to the right and her knees are bent, so her heels are touching her bottom. She takes up maybe one third of the oversized bathtub. I try to remember when she got so small. Her size used to be as big as her generous heart, but over the years, she's lost weight. She's smaller in all the right ways and places, I suppose. Her legs and arms are more muscular than I've ever seen them. They're defined and toned from miles and miles of running, swimming, biking and whatever new activity she's into this week, but she's not bulky. She's tan on the arms and neck and legs, but her stomach and breasts are milky white. Her breasts float quite attractively in the water, so I enjoy the view as she bellows.
When the blasting music in her 30-something ears quiets, I applaud. Her hand tightens on the iPod on the table, frantically turning down the sound as she turns to face me.
"Shit! You scared me to death."
"Sorry. I just didn't want to interrupt the concert."
She shakes her head and lowers it a bit. I can see her cheeks reddening from the realization that I'd been listening.
A moment later, she shakes off the embarrassment. If this had been five years ago, she would have gone under the water and held her breath until either I went out of the room or she felt like she could look me in the eye again without blushing. Either way, I'd for some reason worry about her drowning. She'd come a long way in not feeling embarrassed about not being absolutely perfect in front of me. Case in point, her body. She used to hide it from me in shame and discomfort. Now, she appears to enjoy that I like what I see, even if she still has issues with her body.
She motions for a towel behind me. I pull it off the rack and hand it to her. She steps out of the tub onto the middle of the bathmat and wraps the towel around her. I'm temporarily restricted from appreciating her naked form, until she turns slightly, puts the towel in both hands and bends slightly to dry her legs. It's a wonderful view of her perfectly round ass.
"Very nice," I compliment. The towel moves between her legs, over her belly and then to her chest and arms. Then she bends completely forward to dry her long, light brown hair with a towel giving me a better than perfect view again, only this time with a recently shaven pussy peaking out between her thighs to say hello.
"How many miles a day are you up to running?" I ask resisting the urge to dive onto my knees and go down on her from behind.
"Somewhere between 5 and 8, depending on life that day," she replies as she rubs her head. When she's done, she wraps the towel around her body again, secures it and picks up her hairbrush.
"Let me do that," It comes out more like an order than a request.
She sits down on my lap facing away and hands me the brush. "Gently, Love. There was no conditioner. It'll teach me to pack my own."
I start to brush and do my best not to pull on any knots too hard. "Sorry, I was late," I begin.
She motions with her hand that it was no big deal. As I move the brush through, I can smell the flowery shampoo. "Your hair has gotten so long."
"I keep thinking about cutting it off again."
"Don't you dare. I like it this way. It's sexy."
"And short's not?"
"Not to me. Cute maybe. But not sexy."
"You'll live," she says. It's a dismissal and a joke at the same time.
When I'm done, I reach around and put the brush on the table with the shampoo and lotions. She sits back into me, leaning her wet head against my shoulder and I wrap my arms around her body.
"I missed you," she whispers. It's her standard announcement of affection. She says it, I'm quite sure, instead of "I love you."
